


on trial before god

by s0dafucker



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Experimental Style, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: endings on endings on endings on endings on(purgatory or something.)
Relationships: Alex Kralie/Brian Thomas | Hoody, technically its alex/everyone but eh
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	on trial before god

you take something out of tim, bullet-hole, and he takes something out of you, fair and square, the way things should be. eye for an eye foraneye with his hands so much larger and his arms so much stronger than yours like it was always meant to be this way. fine. this is one ending of many, flip back to the beginning and try again, this is an ending you saw coming when jay rounded that corner and you shot too quick to be merciful.

you were gonna make it right, swear-to-god, reload and reaim and refire, misfire is what you'd call it, if you were in court, but his death was too private for you to be privy to. fine. you get it- you don't want the camera in the room righthererightnow, like an empty shell of a voyeur, like an empty shell of

tim pins you, and you're struggling because it says to in the script, because you were angry, once, old testament god with your rage and your corpses made of people, people made into rubble, and tim wright is a person made from corpses, you think, and the thought would make you laugh if there was any breath in your lungs.

you knew, you knew it when you took the life out of jay's eyes with your shaking shaking shaking cowardly hands, when you ripped the spot of light out of him like a loose tooth, swallowed it pill-solid chased it with gunpowder, you knew tim wouldn't let you live with it rattling around inside you. he'll carve it out, when he splits you down the middle, and you want to ask what he'll do then, how long he'll keep walking the earth without his mirrorimage microphonefeedback cameraman kissing the back of his tongue from the inside. whatever. whatever whatever whatever that's another death off of your hands, another death that won't be hanging around your neck in hell, when tim wakes up in a half-empty hotel bed and realizes that he's better off six feet under with your sorry ass. 

schadenfreude, that's the word you're thinking of, right, so why won't it come out, x-ray afterimage of tim wright's autopsy, shouldn't it make you finally satisfied, isn't that the word you're thinking of. 

he slams your skull into the concrete. karma-or-something. you have the errant thought that this'll be a shitty fucking headache in the morning and then the one that there won't be a morning, ha, isn't that something, side b on this record is coming to a goddamn close and it'd be coming faster if he'd just _get on with it-_

isn't this whole thing just sick-fuckedup-funny. is this how you were always supposed to die, thinking about the whole thing like a girl during some particularly uneventful sex, lying on your back on the cold concrete looking up at him with deadeyes blackeyes because you want to die here under his hands masculine and perfect and you want to jam your fingers in his mouth so your knuckles crack open under his canines.

you want to fit your body into his, don't you, the shell of you to round out the shell of him, fill out that empty space where you took something from him and now he's gotta kill you to pay-it-back, oh, man, isn't that embarrassing, thinking about sex at a time likethis, while he's considering the best place to stab you, while he's muttering venom-wet about how you're a _fucking murderer, killed him, killed all of them,_ yeah, yeah, what about something you don't know, something you haven't been losing sleep over for however many fucking years, yeah, you tell him, and i'd do it again if i had to. what a lost fuckin' cause, trying to explain yourself to the animal wearing tim's skin, the thing barely human enough to hesitate with the blade, barely human enough to still when you do, to listen when you speak, limp and presenting yourself to-be-killed. 

he picks your throat. jugular. fine. you were wondering, walking away from the fire he was scripted to die in- missed his fucking cue, he was always a good actor but never on time; you were wondering while you watched his stunt-double burn to death if he cared enough about the narrative of the thing to stab you in the stomach.

wouldn't that be sweet, candy-apple red, wouldn't that be a valentine, jay's-knife coated in your lifeblood forever and ever and ever and 

how did the other ending go? the one you liked better?

right, yeah, flip the record over, try again again again a 

jay smiles like he's baring his teeth, less like he's smiling and more like he wants you to know he'll be cutting your heart out and eating it raw, when he's done here, when he's done getting kiss-close to your face and hissing that he should've done this a long fucking time ago, shouldn't have _trusted you_ like he ever did that, right, like he ever did anything besides throw himself in front of bullets and drag himself through the woods like he was trying to leave blood-trails, doesn't he get it, 

you're looking at his gums and his imperfect teeth and the shape of his hatred and you explain yourself in this one, don't you, try to, try to spit it all out but you choke choke choke and he says he loved you once and oh, there it is, there's the eyeforaneye, there's the knife sinking in where his bullet-hole goes, in the director's-cut. whatever. you like this one, made for the womb-dark theater, all drama and bleeding gums, blow it up ten feet tall and cry into your stupid syrupsweet fountain soda. you like this one, where he whispers _i loved you i loved you i love you_ and you take something from both of them, take a secret to hell with you. 

c'mon, one more, one last matinee, right, saturday morning where brian kisses you square on the mouth and says _c'mon, man, take a day off,_ c'mon, is this hell yet, are we fucking there yet-

this is the one, fuck, where he doesn't run, where you see his face and it takes the life out of you, all dried out and displayed like an empty liquor bottle, ain't that a trophy, isn't there just something _wrong_ with the way his face stretches into a smile, or is it just- fuck- is it just that you haven't seen it in years. is it just the sicksicksick nightmare-feeling of a walking corpse under your hands with that same old gap-toothed smile and you think _nononono i killed you i killed you_ and, fuck, is this hell yet? fuck. i killed you. i killed you. quit fucking smiling.

you love him you hate him you lovehate all the things you used to hatelove about him you're going to hell without him, fuck, isn't that the one place he could wear that zombie's-smile without making you sicksicksick. you have to kill him, this has to be the one where you kill him, right, there's a version of this where you kill him, you played the _right fucking tape, right?_

fuck. he shoves the barrel of the gun in your mouth and there's a shitty joke in here, right, what is it with you and sex, you and your back on concrete floors, fuck, you and your jaw achingachingaching trying to make room for the way your college boyfriend shoots you dead. 

yeah, laugh-track, print this out and stick it in a porno mag, you loved him once and he chipped your front tooth pushing a gun between your lips, your gun, your gun you paid good fucking money for, knocked off half your tooth like it's barely anything, and you wonder if you'll be cutting your tongue on the jagged edge in hell. fuck, is this hell? are we there yet? are we we we we we 

fuck. yeah, yeah, this is what you get, you should've never tried to burn these tapes in the first place, shit's all melted together, no wonder the player skips- you dumbass- fucking _hit it,_ just smack the shit out of it, it's had worse, you've done worse, yeah, here's one where you're doing worse-

stopstopstopstop this is hell, right, this one's hell, fuck, fuck, your shoulder's bloody and stinging and you know what comes next, come on, just turn it off, we all know what comes next. come on. can't we watch the tv-edit, instead of this nc-17 cut where you just keep bringing the cinderblock down until your arms give out. how'd they ever put him back together from that, you wonder, tim screaming into the floor and jay hyperventilating down the barrel of the lens, either of them, how'd they ever walk away from this. jay turns the knife on you when you go to leave and yeah, you can't blame him, you just wish he'd flip the viewfinder around so you don't have to watch your throat open up for him.

the director’s-cut is fine, you think, the way it ends on dvd, the way it ends ends ends you’re fine with it, right, fine with choking on your own blood, fine with all of it,

nostalgia, cloyingsicklysweet, in your mouth and nose and chest and lungs, oh, fuck, the white of your bedroom wall, cold cold cold press of the gun to your temple. you breath, like you’re being waterboarded, like you’re being buried alive, shuddering like it’s a fullbody event. there’s an audience across the room, blinking red light, and your index finger slips and your heart jumps into your throat. you’re shaking. you can’t stop shaking. you’ve been here more than once. you’ve been here every night for years on years on years.

you pull the trigger, because you have to, because the script says you will, because the gun is in your hand, because there’s no one else here to point it at. 

_what are you doing,_ jay asks, strangely quiet, you squinting up through a black eye, him painted orange in the street-lights; what? what the hell do you-? and then the tilt of his head is animalistic again, the glare of his eyes when he kicks you in your broken ribs, the shattersound of the camera when he kicks that, too. 

tim this time. tim again. fine. fine. you want to wrestle that stupid fucking mask off his face just as bad as he wants your gun, god, is this hell yet? christ. 

_you tried to kill them,_ he says, he says, he says, and you think you might be crying- you _had_ to, does nobody fucking get it, i had to i had to

 _what are you doing,_ he says, and isn't it obvious, you'd think anyone could understand what it means when you put your forehead against the gun, but he shakes like he doesn't know quite how to do it and fuck, you want to laugh. are you still capable of it, of a thing like that, are you capable of anything that isn't telling him to get on with it, hurry up, you want this over with. _what are you doing here._

'what the fuck are you talking about?' 

he pulls back, looks at the gun in his hand like he isn't sure how it got there, doesn't know what it is. 

'you're not supposed to- this isn't right.' 

you can almost see his eyes, the black holes where his eyes should be, the sawdust in your eyesmouthnose _christ_ , you hate this, you fucking hate this, you reach up/put your hand over his hand/pull the trigger yourself. 

your fault. your fault. your fault.

jay's hands are around your throat. the time doesn't matter. the place doesn't make sense. _what are you doing here,_ he says, _what are we doing here,_ and you're a corpse because you know that best, you've been fucking typecast, _what are we doing, what are we doing,_ and he's letting you go and looking at his hands like they don't belong to him, _what are you doing. what is this._

stop fucking saying that, you tell him, with your brokenglass voice, and do it already. get it over with. 

_this is your fault,_ he says, and he's shaking, and you know that. you've always known that. maybe it's the only thing you ever had right.

'you can't keep doing this,' tim says, and he's strangely lucid for how he's bashing your head on the concrete, 'we're not supposed to be here. this isn't how it goes.'

and goddammit, you know that, but can't he just- there's the crystalbreaking sound of your glasses, ground into dust, or maybe it's just your eyes rattling in your skull, maybe it's just everything breaking into pieces, maybe it's just that _this isn't how it ends,_ he's saying, and you can't see, and your blood is so fucking hot, spilling out of you, _you can't keep doing this._ alex? you can't- you can't be here. this isn't right. 

but isn't this hell, you want to ask him, but your jaw's been broken so badly that you don't think you're even capable of it. can’t he just make this hell. can’t we just make it hell, it’s already mostly-there, it already hurts enough, it always hurts, your entire life has been dying at the hands of men who you loved, who loved you, maybe, once, and when you open your eyes to amy’s face inches from yours they slide back shut with all the force of an executioner’s-guillotine.

(that one- you’re whispering, aren’t you, or something, quiet and secret- that one is all you, baby, this is a re-write, re-shoot, when she plunges a knife into your stomach and sobsobsobsobs _this isn’t right this isn’t real you shouldn’t be here_ with her head on your chest that heaves with your dyingbreathing _i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry._ you don’t speak. it is your fault.)

(why’d you keep these tapes. why do you have these. why do you keep rewinding.)

'hey, alex?' 

is this hell yet. you're lying in bed. you're chest-to-back with brian, you know the smell of him, know the feel of him deaf and blind. the sun is rising, somewhere, and it is streaming in through the blinds. 

'what is it?'

his mouth on the back of your neck, just a slow sense-of-him, warm, and he murmurs, 'i love you,' into your skin, 'that's all.'

'is this hell?' you ask him, and he kisses, open-mouthed, feverbright feeling of him, god, how long has it been since you knew the feeling of him. one of his hands is under your shirt where it risesfallsrisesfalls with your even breathing.

'not really,' he says. 'more like a deleted scene, i think.'

'how long is it,' you murmur into your pillow, cool and soft and no, you're not going to turn around, you're not risking it, no goddamn orpheus and eurydice bullshit is gonna get you.

he laughs, all breath and smiling-shape, goosebumps on your skin, like you're being clever, like you're asking the right questions. it's a learned-skill, with him- he always liked codes, always liked his puzzles. 'don't know yet.'

'we're dead, right? for good?' 

he hums, the scent of him sunbeamsweet, press of his lips to the tender skin behind your ear, your jugular where the scar tim gave you- will give you- has never given you- begins. 'i wouldn't know. i'm not the director.'

you love him love him love him in this moment that lasts forever, and you laugh like it's a good joke. like you're both just kidding. like you haven't cried over his-

'shut up,' he says, 'you don't want to ruin it.'

'it's gotta be ruined eventually,' you say, even if it's bittersourwrong in this room, in your mouth that hungers for his mouth, 'right? this can't last.'

he's quiet. you worry, for a long long moment, that you've done something awful again and he won't speak again and he'll be limp on the concrete again-

he kisses you, makes a soothing sound like you're a child having a nightmare. 'i'm here.'

he keeps his lips pressed to your skin, so you can feel him breathing, and after a while he says, quietly, 'i think it'll last as long as you let it. do you have anything else to do?'

penance, right. hell and such. you went to church, you know how this works, eye for an eye, if you kill somebody-

there is brian's kiss again, the faint scratch of stubble, warm spot on your bare shoulder where he fits in like he was always supposed to be there. 

‘i… i should, right? i should have other shit to do. to make it right.’

‘you did what you could.’

there’s a lump in your throat, suddenly, painful and weighty. did you?

‘you loved me.’

‘i _love_ you.’ it’s a physical thing to say, climbing through barbed wire in your mouth, but you force it anyway. your eyes are wet.

‘it’s not your fault the screenplay was shit. it’s not anyone’s fault.’

‘is this-?’ you don’t want to ask. you don’t know what you want the answer to be.

he makes a sound to let you know he’s heard. ‘it’s not... not heaven. or, i guess, it is. not-heaven. it’s as heaven as anything else is.’

‘and i’m… the director.’ it sounds clumsy. unsure. maybe because you’re asking more than telling. letting it sit in the air to see if it’ll stick. 

‘what do you call that, if it wasn’t directing?’

‘editing, maybe,’ you say, like it’s a joke, and he breathes out something laugh-shaped. something warm to fill you up. ‘did i direct this? i think i would’ve remembered.’

‘i have to have some input, dumbass. i’m the star.’ and you smile, because you love him, and he murmurs, ‘hey. turn around.’ stage-direction. blocking. easy stuff. your body knows it better than you do, some rehearsal you missed, and so you do, easy as anything. so you do. you were always good at setting things alight and so you hope your script knows to burn itself, when you're done here, as well as you know to follow an actor’s lead. 

**Author's Note:**

> blah blah blah grief trauma i think alex did nothing wrong i watch too much evangelion


End file.
